This tale starts, as most do (in fact all tales start, that wasn’t where I wasn’t placing the emphasis), with me post-procrastinatorily working.
After several menial tasks I got around to the washing. From this point onward it shall be known as ‘The Washing of Fate’.
I dragged the slightly colourful guts from my washing basket and balled up the contents into a clump. I held the clump, or rather, it held me, as I surrounded it much like a hermit crabs shell. I waddled downstairs difficultly and into the utility room. I flumped the clump onto the floor and exchanged the wet guts of the washing machine for the dirty guts of my washing basket.
Perhaps it was this that left me in a haze of ponderation, the profundity of exchanging wet life for dirty life, how that applies to us and how that affects us. I probably wasn’t, actually, I was just doing the washing. But it would explain the incredible dilemma I had found myself in (from this point on known as the ‘Incrediblemma’).
In my absent-mindedosity, I had poured Calgon into the very mouth of the dirty-gut taker/wet-gut spewer. Was Calgon a viable washing powder? it looked incredibly Dishwasherian, a box with like-minded graphics wouldn’t look out of place cleaning my dishes. What insanity had I encouraged? Would my clothes become cutlery? Or food? Or both?! And as soon as my brain shouted ‘Sparkling clean chocolate knives’ it was countered with a soft jingle ‘Washing machines live longer with Calgon!’. Washing machines live longer with Calgon. WASHING MACHINES LIVE LONGER WITH CALGON. Not only was Calgon a fine choice, it may have been a beneficial choice.
This concludes my tale. Well, it may not be epic enough to be regarded as a tale. Perhaps it was an anecdote. Wait, nothing actually happened. I did my washing. Was that the ending? The Calgon bit, that was, inspiring… Or was the ending, that I had started procrastinating again! Oh God. This tale ends the same way it began, and the same way everything else will begin and end. With me procrastinating.

Call me a sceptic but I’ll bet in the ‘true story’ an arm didn’t come out of her mouth.

I’m trying a new style of humour. It’s called not funny.

No thanks.

DISCLAIMER: Hi there. Whatever you may (or may not) have thought about me before, your opinion is most likely about to diminish to a whimpering puddle of piteous disrespect. But wait! the following article marks as a sacrifice of my dignity. I have laid it all on the line for this hard hitting piece of journalism, as all of the greats did (Alexander the, Khali, Khan, Gatsby… full list here). So, here it is. A violent truth nugget flying at your face at the velocity of literature:

I joined a Russian bride site. 4 days after becoming the minimum age to do so, I joined a Russian bride site. After having at least 5 crises (emotional, mental, social, existential and global, respectively), I documented my thoughts on the matter.
What initially struck me was that the majority of the women had said ‘picking belly button lint’ was a favourite hobby of theirs. I accept I know little of Eastern European culture, but at any rate I had underestimated the fluffiness of Russian umbilici. An intriguing point I may add is that I had formerly been told only males had belly button fluff, which said something awful about either my knowledge on the subject or the questionable use of the word ‘bride’. This fact coincided with a flitting thought in my mind that said “Is Russiangrooms.org.uk a thing? Can’t hurt to keep your options open.”
I’d just like it known that, in the event I did receive a Russian bride I would honestly pretend she was a robot. That is the level of innocence I started at, I slowly devolved into a womanising tyrant (at least by my standards). In such a clinical setting as the internet it’s hard not to objectify the women, being sucked into a misogynist environ means questions like, “If this is free, do people who use prostitutes just not have the internet?” seem legitimate.
I felt uncomfortable in the presence of the site, it seemed like this was how the porn industry thrives. Suddenly I felt a gradual transformation welling inside me, into a violent sexual fiend. As if the site sat cretin-like on my shoulder, stroking my hair as it whispers in my ear “It says here ‘It’s always clean for company!’, a lot like your genitals in that respect.” I look at the embodiment and say, seething and frothing with words “Yes, yes, ooh I like her gloves, I hope I get to keep those, too.” My disappointed transformation-embodiment stares at me and spits. “No, it’s more like this…” He pointed at the screen as it suggested I send ‘a wink’ to Olga “Say something like, ‘the only wink I’m sending her is from my penis.’ Your turn.” He had began to sound a bit like a cross between Christian Bale’s Batman and Hannibal Lecter. Slightly perturbed I said “Says here she likes spending time with her friends, well I’m takin’ her away from everyone she’s ever loved.” The cretin silently applauded as my mind rambled on, “She has reptiles! She’s definitely my wife.”
So one thing led to another and now Olga’s coming over.

Me and Super Meat Boy have a love/hate relationship. I love him, he hates me. This is him eating my soul.